


spn fic: "Riders on the Storm"

by fannishliss



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:58:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time, Sam was possessed against his will. The demon blood was a little more subtle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	spn fic: "Riders on the Storm"

**"Riders on the Storm"**  
Sam/OFC, Ruby.  
1,541 words.  
Situation set during the s3/s4 hiatus; no spoilers for s5.  
Many thanks to [](http://azephirin.livejournal.com/profile)[**azephirin**](http://azephirin.livejournal.com/) for the prompt.  
Warning: het; demony sex, muddy consent issues. Rating nc-17 for disturbing ideas.

Summary: The first time, Sam was possessed against his will. The demon blood was a little more subtle.

  
"Riders on the Storm"

There are some things about the demon blood that Sam Winchester has never fully realized, or never fully admitted to himself, or at least not while he was awake.

None of the Winchesters or their allies (not even Sam himself, ironically) have ever taken note of the amazing intoxication a demon feels upon dwelling within a body. Even bodies closer to dead come to life with a fever when a demon moves in. Within the sheltering confines of a body, the demon feels a respite from the hooks and knives that relentlessly drag them back toward the endlessly patient rack. Sunderings, burnings, drownings, electrocutions, and the undying whisper of recriminations, are muted for the moment and fade into the past while the demon luxuriates in the sussurrating bloodstream. The heart, brain, and liver, genitals and hands, the organs of sense – all reach out and feed the demon with a thousand glorious details of the not-Hell, Earth. Even the most grievously crushed or pierced body is so much more alive than these nearly obliterated souls have tasted in aeons, with their lightning for eyes and ashes for mouths.

On the midnight when Sam Winchester reached a quarter century in age, ravening hounds dragged his brother to Hell, where demons began the long process of stripping away everything that had made Dean human. When it grew back, they’d strip it away again, and again, and again, and each time the scar tissue grew back blacker, with less of the blood of the human soul’s dreams and more the sulfuric reek of the blackening remains. Sam knew it, saw it, felt it: his dreams were full of the screams, the stench, and the spray of blood that pulsed weaker and weaker, day by day.

With dreams so drenched in his brother’s blackening blood, nostrils full of volcanic fumes, no wonder Sam succumbed when the doe-eyed girl, all lush with soft curls and full curves, tempted him with ruby fruit, and he drank.

As the demon blood coursed into him, Sam had one thought on his mind: become so powerful that the most powerful demons would be forced to do his bidding or die. Lilith held his brother’s contract-- he could track her down, he could make her bring Dean back. As the demon blood sang in his veins, he knew he could do it. With every beat of his heart, he felt more powerful. The demon smiled with a girl’s luscious lips and helped him train, guided him in awakening his own powers, while the blood fed him full of ambition and arrogance.

Sam stopped dreaming of Dean screaming in hell. The demon blood soothed him, wanting nothing of hellish realities. Sam’s dreams were lusty, impulsive and satisfying. In dreams, whatever he wanted, he reached for and it was never denied. In his sleep, Sam’s lip learned a self-satisfied curl, a smile that reappeared sometimes by day when Sam saw things settle in his favor.

After he stopped dreaming, Sam also stopped drinking. Or at least, he stopped needing the bottles that sloshed their weak watery fire down his throat and burned him to numbness. He still went to the bars and nursed beers, too bored of his own company, too stricken by the silence of the rooms with their solitary kings, even now, when he’d wake up not cold or alone but with a woman’s warm body insinuated into the hollow his chest and arms made – not really an embrace now but merely a vacancy marked out by exhausted limbs.

So, though Sam had stopped drinking, and his hipflask no longer breathed 151 proof -- he was still drinking an intoxicating wine, a spirit flowing out of a girlful of demon. Sam’s mighty brain might slip into sleep, or slumber through a dreamland of a demon’s devising, but the girl would sometimes sit up and lead him by the hand, the demon in her still singing chorus in Sam’s veins as well, Kirlian glimmers like tracers between her hand and his sleepwalking, or like severed tentacles still persevering in twitching.

It happened like this to Karla Owens on August 23, 2008. The rain was pounding down and the night was black as thunder on the asphalt of a parking lot of a little neighborhood bar somewhere in the outer sprawl of Atlanta, Georgia.

Karla had covered an extra shift for a friend and needed to unwind. She stopped at the bar and dashed in, exhilarated by the rain and the smell of ozone, triumphing in her little feat of not being hit by lightning.

As her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the bar and she shook the rain out of her hair and brushed off her clothes, she caught sight of a man at the bar, and couldn’t easily look away.

It was there in his casual sprawl, the huge hand that toyed with a shotglass, the floppy hair that curled at his neck—the worn boots, the frayed jeans, and the faded western shirt – but especially, in the curl of his lip, the predatory gleam of his eye. He sat with a black-haired woman who was equally as gorgeous, but their eyes slipped to Karla and the woman slid from her stool. She whispered something intimate into the man’s ear, and his smile solidified as her hand grazed his arm and shoulder and she drifted away.

The man at the bar raised his glass to Karla. The grin he gave her was sweet, not as menacing as it might have seemed a second ago. The lightning outside and the wildness of the night had taken hold in Karla, so she went on over and sat down on the stool the girl had just slithered off.

“Your friend coming back?” Karla asked. Thank god, the ambient noise level in this bar was low--one reason she frequented the place.

“My friend? Oh. Ruby, you mean. Nah.”

Karla stared at the man. Good Lord, he was huge. His arms alone, Jesus Christ. She couldn’t help imagining...

“What’s your pleasure?” the man said.

“What? Oh! a Brave Bull please – it’s a shooter of tequila and Kahlua. My girlfriends in college used to call it the Dark Gift.” Karla caught herself thinking that this guy’s teeth were very white. His eyes were an unusual blue green.

“That’s a hoot,” the man said, his grin pretty but not impressed. “Two please,” he said to the bartender, who lined them up.

Karla downed the shooter, the pleasant coffee sweetness of the Kahlua softening the burn of the tequila.

“My name’s Karla,” she said.

“Sam. Want another?”

“Sure. It’s been a long day.” If Sam was up for buying her drinks, Karla was up for drinking them.

“Well, all righty then,” Sam said, and they proceeded to drink.

Karla couldn’t remember much by way of conversation, though Sam was in Atlanta on business, just passing through, and the girl was named Ruby, and was “just a friend.” Sam wasn’t very interested in talking, and they were soon in a black classic car driving to a nearby motel, and Sam was very steady on his feet and very sober behind the wheel in comparison to how many shooters he’d ordered for Karla.

Sam’s grip was sure as he guided her across the puddled asphalt of the motel parking lot, just a few steps from the door of the old black car to the awning over room 113.

His hands were even stronger as he stripped off her wet clothing, hanging it over the motel chair to drip... and his body was irresistible as he pressed her down into the bed. He taught her to say, “yes, Sam” and “please” and “yes, I want it” and “please, Sam, yes.” He liked her to scream and he was good at making her. The night had flashed and thundered and Sam was hot and hard and not ready to sleep. Karla’s screams were loud and eventually continuous, until eventually it all went black.

In the dim red morning Karla felt a soft hand on her shoulder, shaking her awake.

The black-haired “friend,” Ruby, was shaking her awake, a smile on her beautiful lips. The lips were beautiful but the smile was triumphant and bitter.

“Get out while he’s still asleep. And thanks for the ride. He deserves a live one every now and then. But I don’t want him to know. And what I don’t want, doesn’t happen. So go. Go!”

The soft hand on Karla’s shoulder was as strong a force as Sam had been the night before, just as hot and hard. Karla’s hands shook as she pulled on her clothes, got herself together, and walked out into the pounding headache of the morning. She called a cab and got herself home and tried not to think of Sam the next time she went drinking.

Sam woke up alone, sticky and hot with the Georgia weather. Ruby sat in the motel chair across from the bed, watching him with eyes full of laughter as he kicked off the covers and headed for the shower.

Another dreamless night, thought Sam, in the blood hot spray, and one step closer to Lilith.  
  
~*o*~

There's a killer on the road -- His brain is squirmin' like a toad  
Take a long holiday --Let your children play  
If you give this man a ride sweet memory will die  
Killer on the road, yeah

Girl ya gotta love your man  
Take him by the hand, Make him understand  
The world on you depends  
Our life will never end --Gotta love your man

Riders on the storm.... (the Doors)


End file.
